Six-Week Survival Mode

There I was again, in the small, one-windowed cement-bricked room, face to face with my mission president.

"Sister Burningham," he said to me, "You can survive anything for six weeks."

I was one week (or possibly less?) into a new transfer in a new area with a new companion. I'd just come from a place that felt like home and a companion that felt more like a best friend and sister than someone assigned to be with me 24/7.

Six weeks, I repeated in my mind. I can survive anything for six weeks. 

And so I did. I had no idea at the beginning of that transfer that survival mode is so much easier to bear when you are working hard, serving hard, and loving hard. My companion and I butted heads daily, but I came to love her for who she was and her unique gifts and talents. And before I knew it, transfers were upon us again and I gained a new companion. The weeks stretched into months, the months turned into spring and my Californian companion teaching me why 4/20 was now written all over our hippie-college-town area sidewalks. Within a week of that weird-smelling tracting day, I was sitting in my childhood bedroom, saying to myself once again, six weeks. 

Six weeks became fifteen, but I survived. Nine months until the end of my mission became 11, and Scott survived while I thrived.

I was home (for good) for six weeks when I gained a diamond ring and nine weeks later, a new name. As semesters, jobs, and challenges have come and gone, I've often repeated my mission president's words to myself. You can survive anything for six weeks.

Teething? Sleep-training? Husband's heavy workloads? Re-curring winter storms? Colds that won't go away? Meltdowns by the millions?  I can survive anything for six weeks.

Last Sunday, I hit 33 weeks of pregnancy, which means that I have only six weeks of this pregnancy left. Though pregnancy is definitely not easy, compared to my last two child-growing experiences, this one has been a piece of cake (maybe because this time I can actually have an occasional piece of cake). In the past two weeks, however, everything has gotten harder: sleeping, maintaining blood sugar control, managing anxiety, showing patience and charity to my children, telling myself to slow down and then forcing myself to ignore all the messes in my home and just let it be. I don't write this to complain--I write it to remember.

I write to remember the things and people that helped me survive:

• My two-year-old asking me to cuddle on the couch and then falling asleep in my arms, forcing me to snuggle, meditate, and enjoy the last of his true babyness before becoming a big brother forces him to grow up faster.
• My daughter replacing the toilet paper by herself, making me realize that although I may feel like a craptastic mother most of the time, I have at least taught her one human skill that most adults struggle with. 
• My husband, responding to my "I just can't deal anymore" email and working from home all afternoon, even though I know he gets so much more done in office. While I am slipping in and out of sleep, I hear him changing a poopy diaper in the next room while simultaneously making a work call. 
• And all the little things: packages with new baby goodies in the mail. Waking up to an email from a faraway friend. Not having trouble finding a babysitter to watch my kids during yet another doctor's appointment. Free insulin samples from my doctor. Realizing that I have more than enough prenatal vitamins to last through the end of this pregnancy. Making plans on the calendar for after the baby's due date. 

There is an end in sight. In six weeks, I will have survived the worst and hardest part of this pregnancy. 

And then, as I'm adjusting to three kids and a newborn schedule, I'll keep repeating the words to myself:

I can survive anything for six weeks.